


it takes a village (or an army)

by mellarosa



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Tucker does not want to babysit, alien temples are jacked up, and also angst bc hey its war, bc lesbihonest this is wash he carries ansgt around like a second shadow, because omg bby wash, but hey theres also cute moments, caboose misunderstands the word babysit, everyone's actually p chill abt it, id say canon typical language but i dont think even i can swear that much, post s13, tucker babysits, until angst happens, wash becomes kid-ified
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 19:33:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9286760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellarosa/pseuds/mellarosa
Summary: Tucker wishes it had been the alien sex temple instead of this.He really, really wishes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> why aren't there more weird ass alien temple fics

Tucker wishes it had been the alien sex temple instead of this.

 

He really, really wishes.

 

\--

 

One week since Epsilon fragmented himself. One week since the Reds and Blues fought their way through what seemed to be endless soldiers. One week since they found Hargrove with a bullet in his head and a gun by his hand and really wasn't that just a wonderful throwback?

 

The UNSC ships aren't due for another week, and Chorus is trying to put itself back together. Ragged bands of surviving space pirates, usually two or three to a group, wander the surface, seeking revenge and or a way off the damned planet. 

 

The Feds and the News had abandoned any pretense of differences in the last battle, but now that an army of space pirates and their few unscrupulous sociopathic leaders aren't at everyone's heels, old divisions are starting to resurface. Especially when the question of what exactly will happen to Chorus and its government, now that the war was over arises.

 

Not to mention the body count. Hargrove’s revenge had left Mantis-torn bodies scattered everywhere. Somehow the Reds and Blues had made it through alive - sans Epsilon. True, Sarge is temporarily in a wheelchair, Lopez is missing both legs and an arm and refusing to let anyone but Sarge fix him (...they think? no one actually speaks Spanish. He could also be cursing Sarge and asking them to leave him for dead. God knows). Donut is trapped in the infirmary with multiple broken ribs and a stab wound, Doc’s hands are irreparably burnt from a malfunction in his launcher and won't ever quite work right again. Simmons needs new prosthetics and Grif is laid up with a gunshot wound to the chest. Caboose has a concussion and a few bullet wounds himself, but the real thing stopping him is complete depression, a hundred times worse than when Carolina and Epsilon just left.

 

Tucker himself is pretty okay. Maine's armor enhancements - and Epsilon - are what kept them all alive, and Tucker's just got some basic cuts and bruises. Wash tells him blankly he's lucky Epsilon was connected to the armor, not to his neural implants, when he fragmented. 

 

Carolina and Wash too have made it out physically unscathed. Mentally? Carolina's a wreck. Tucker wouldn't have seen that a year ago, but now he looks at her running countless laps, always keeping busy, hears the smile that only ever appeared faintly in her voice gone. 

 

Wash is… Wash is probably the most okay of all of them at the moment, which is honestly fucked up as all hell. Tucker knows it's because he's used to war, knows it's because Wash and Epsilon never truly made up. And that ought to make Tucker angry, angry that Church is dead for real now, no getting him back, and Wash doesn't care, doesn't care that Tucker's be- Tucker's teammate is gone. But mostly he just feels an exhausted sense of understanding. 

 

Tucker is tired a lot, now. His whole body aches, drags him down, and his mind is nothing but a blur. He wants nothing more than to take a ship and just leave, leave and find his son and just … never fight a war again.

 

But he's shed too much blood for this planet. He's lost too many people to this place. And there's too many people he cares about here, now. 

 

Tucker is going to see this thing through. 

 

\--

 

Turns out seeing it through means running whatever missions and errands Kimball needs.

 

“Agent Washington. Captain Tucker. I need you to take a few men and scout out here,” Kimball says, pointing to an area on her map, under which is a terrifying pile of paperwork. Tucker has to squint to read the words, given that the lighting in the broom closet Kimball is currently sequestered in is shit. “There's signs of pirate activity. There's not much there - some forest, some plains mostly, but there's a tiny alien temple and there's a good chance that's where they're hiding out.”

 

“Yes, General,” Wash says, snapping a salute.

 

“Gotcha,” Tucker says, figuring that saving the planet excuses him from formality. (Not that he was ever formal in the first place.)

 

“Take a Warthog and three other men of your discretion. You are excused.” The General doesn't even watch to see them leave, instead rolling up the map and returning to the piles and piles of datapads and honest to god paper. Tucker feels sorry for her.

 

“So who do you wanna bring?” Tucker asks as they carefully exit the broom closet, checking to see no one sees them leave it. (Kimball is the most sought out person on the whole planet lately. She's resorted to hiding out in odd places. Tucker's just glad she's not in an old, forgotten bathroom this time. True, it was clean, but the principle of the thing.) (Also the both of them leaving a broom closet is suggestive. Normally, Tucker doesn't mind a little suggestion. But… now's not the time.) “The lieutenants?”

 

“They're busy,” Wash shakes his head. “Is Olson back from their supply run?”

 

“Yesterday, I think.”

 

“And Volleyball and Matthews I think, then.” 

 

Wash is speaking in his ‘get shit done’ voice and Tucker realizes he's got one too. They're two veteran soldiers marching down a hallway, passing privates and lieutenants and even a captain or two giving them salutes, and it's just so odd he has a sudden weird lurch, and his hand goes to subconsciously rub his neural implant. 

 

“Tucker? Tucker!” He startles, glancing towards Wash. The older man is concerned, bright blue eyes under furrowed brows watching him carefully.

 

Tucker shakes his head to clear it, then speaks. “Sorry, dude. Got lost in my head.”

 

“Are you,” Wash begins, suddenly in his awkward mode, “you, okay, Tucker?”

 

Tucker gives him a Look. Wash sighs.

 

“Right. Dumb question, sorry.” They don't meet each other's eyes again. 

 

\--

 

Matthews doesn't shut up the whole ride there, and it's pissing everyone off. Olson and Volleyball elect to ignore him by trading tips on how best to shut someone up - beginning at duct tape and starting to veer into ‘cutting out his tongue’ territory. 

 

Matthews doesn't pick up the hint.

 

Tucker feels like he should be flirting with Volleyball. Instead he quietly sits in the shotgun seat, watching landscape pass by. Desert turns to savannah turns to plains turns to forest.

 

He's careful not to think of anything. It's probably an unhealthy coping mechanism but it's working pretty damn well so far so fuck it.

 

The temple really is small, when they reach it. All the other ones they've seen are huge, eerie, reaching up into the sky with swooping, unnatural precision.

 

This temple still has that freaky aura attached to it, but it's more like a turret than a tower. They're cautious as they approach it, and Wash is the first one in. 

 

He does his sneaky secret agent shit then whispers clear. They're all careful to keep their footsteps as light as possible in power armor, but become less and less so as it becomes increasingly obvious no ones here. 

 

There's evidence of inhabitation, sure, maybe a few days old, but nothing to show where the pirates have gone. 

 

And then Matthews goes and jinxes it.

 

“They must have abandoned this place!” he says cheerily, as they regroup in the main room - a sort of entrance hall, they think.

 

“Christ, Matthews, don't say that, you'll j-” Olson is cut off abruptly with the terribly familiar sound of a gunshot. They look down, their mouth makes a small ‘oh’ as they see the wound in their chest, and they collapse. Volleyball makes a horrible squeak of shock and drops to their side.

 

Six pirates rush in the room, guns blazing. Some are missing helmets, all are missing bits and pieces of armor.

 

“You fucktards,” one growls. The one who shot Olson. “It’s your goddamn fault we're stuck here. It's your fault we're all dead!”

 

“I feel like you should actually blame Hargrove for that - oh shit, dude!” Tucker ducks a bullet aimed at his head.

 

Volleyball stands, and though Tucker can't see her eyes he knows they're full of fury. “You bastards,” she growls, and Tucker remembers she just turned 22. He forgot how young they all are. Quick as a flash she shoots the lead pirate in the brain.

 

It's a firefight after that, but while Tucker, Wash, Volleyball, and Matthews were ambushed (and Matthews is useless), the pirates are hurt and their defences are shit. Plus, it helps to have a Freelancer on your side. 

 

There's just one left and he's pulling a knife on Wash and all Tucker can thing is oh god not another one and he charges, sword out.

 

The sword goes right through the pirate.

 

The sword also goes through what they assumed was a wall. 

 

Tucker swears as it activates with a blue flashing lock. Because just his luck, really.

 

“Tu-” Wash starts, then collapses. 

 

“Wash!” he screams, running to the fallen agent. Tucker kneels, repeating his name, but Wash doesn't move, and Tucker feels panic encroaching in his throat.

 

Then Volleyball is there and she's clicking off his helmet and Tucker’s heart stops and Matthews lets out a high pitched scream because there is nothing inside Wash’s helmet. 

 

They stare in horrified silence for a moment, before a wail breaks it. For a half second Tucker thinks it's Matthews, but no, that's not-

 

He yanks off the chestpiece. Inside the armor like it's a shell, tangled in an adult side Kevlar undersuit, is a baby. 

 

A baby with bright blue eyes and the beginnings of freckles.

 

“Why couldn't it have been the sex temple?” Tucker asks mournfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry lotsa exposition ill do better next chapter


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which people stand around and talk, just like the actual show

“So… So Agent Washington is a baby, right?” Matthews speaks up, voice a little wobbly. “It’s, uh, it's not just me, right? You guys see this?”

 

“I see it,” agrees Volleyball. She sounds rough, and Tucker feels a sharp pang of guilt - Olson and Volleyball had become fast friends after the News and Feds had banded together. He knows there was nothing he could have done, but guilt never cares about possibilities.

 

“Fucking aliens,” he growls. “Santa! Get your dirty glowing red ass out here!” It was always the Reds, wasn't it?

 

There's a flicker, and Santa appears. “What can I do for you, Lavernius Tucker?” he asks serenely. The AI has the blank face of an Elite, and while Santa has never so far shown any hint of preference or emotions, Tucker's spent enough time around both faceless AIs (Churches) and aliens that he feels comfortable betting his porn collection that Santa is amused.

 

“The fuck is this,” Tucker says furiously, gesturing towards baby Wash, still tangled in a Kevlar undersuit, lying in the chest piece of armor like some pearl in a fucked up oyster.

 

“That is Agent Washington,” Santa answers.

 

Tucker rips off his helmet and glares at the AI. “Why the fuck is he a baby?!?”

 

“You activated the Temple of Art.”

 

“Art?” Volleyball repeats. “He's a baby, not a painting.”

 

“How do we get him back?” Matthews adds.

 

Santa shifts minutely. “Over the course of roughly one human week, Agent Washington will age in scattered jumps until he returns to his true age. My people considered this process to be an art - to observe the course of an individual’s life as one whole, to see how one changed over their life, the vision uncontaminated by outside distractions like passage of years.”

 

“Dude? That's weird,” Tucker says. “I've never heard anything like that and I spent months with aliens.”

 

“You cannot be expected to understand every nuance of a species’ culture in the course of a few months,” Santa says archly. “Yet I admit it is a rather outdated practice. This planet was abandoned by my people a long time ago.”

 

“So… We just wait a week, and he'll be the screechy badass we know again?” asks Volleyball doubtfully.

 

“No, like, catches?” Matthew adds. “He won't die or never age if we fail to carry out some convoluted scheme?”

 

Tucker rolls his eyes. Of course, Matthews would choose now to be genre savvy, not earlier when he jinxed them.

 

“....no,” Santa says, confused. “W-”

 

A wail cuts him off. “He might die if we don't feed him, soon,” Tucker sighs.

 

Both men turn simultaneously to Volleyball. “Don't look at me, I was an only ch-” she stops, and frowns. “Wait. You think-” All three adults lower their gaze to slightly below Volleyball's face. “Oh my god. Men. You really don't know how female bodies work, do you?”

 

“I know enough,” Tucker smirks. “Bow chicka OW!” He lets out a rather embarrassing squeal of pain as she smacks his shoulder.

 

“You’re more a baby than Washington is - hang on, Captain, let me see your arm,” she says suspiciously. She peers at the body part in question. “Captain. What's this?”

 

Tucker grumbles, but when her glare increases that it can be felt through her visor, he mutters, “Pirate got a clip in. It's not bad. Could… could have been worse.” Volleyball goes silent.

 

Matthews doesn't. “You should still see Doctor Grey when we get back, sir!” he chirps. “It would be awful to have such a talented Captain out of commission!”

 

“Shut the fuck up, Matthews - oh my god does anyone know how to shut up that baby?”

 

“We should get him to Grey, too. Just in case,” Matthews goes on. 

 

“I dibs driving,” Volleyball says. “No way I'm carrying the baby on the four hour drive back.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

\--

 

“Oh my god, Wash, you're even more screechy and annoying when you're a baby!” Tucker cries as he tries in vain to block the sound out with his hands. “I didn't know it was possible!”

 

“He's probably hungry,” muses Matthew, who agreed to hold the baby in order to get on Tucker's good side. “Or… oh, yep. This suit might need to be washed when we get back. Or… thrown out. Ew.”

 

“Oh god,” Tucker moans. “Fuckin’ classy, Agent.”

 

“We’re never letting him forget this, right?” Volleyball asks. 

 

“Blackmail,” Matthews says, singsong. Volleyball’s turns her head from the road and they stare at him. “What? I kiss ass for a reason,” he says nonchalantly. “Sometimes a little… push… helps, though.”

 

“I suddenly have a little more respect for you, Private,” Tucker says.

 

“Thank you sir! You don't know what that means to me!”

 

“Aaaaand, it's gone.”

 

“Completely understandable, Captain,” says Matthews cheerily. 

 

“Two more hours to Shieldbank,” Volleyball informs them, naming the city that had become the impromptu capital. 

 

Wash’s scream can probably heard be all the way there.

 

\--

 

It's a little less than a heroic entrance.

 

Lieutenant Olson is dead. Tucker’s shoulder wound hasn't taken the trip well, and red has started to stain the aqua. Wash’s armor clatters awkwardly in the trunk. Matthews smells like shit. Wash’s wails could shatter glass.

 

The resulting conversation with Kimball, who was waiting outside for them (Wash heralded their entrance quite loudly), is quite awkward.

 

“So who gets saddled with the kid?” Tucker asks while Volleyball runs to get Grey. The younger woman needed space, and she certainly wouldn't get it here with a crowd quickly congregating. 

 

“I can take him, General!” Matthews says with his trademark ‘brown-nosing’ tone. “I've got an old mini-fridge in my quarters that'll serve as a fantastic crib-”

 

“No,” Kimball says flatly. Shieldbank might still be composed mostly of soldiers - any remaining people on Chorus who were ruled unable to fight spent the war holed up in a mountain base, and haven't yet moved to Shieldbank - but anyone could see Matthews was less than the ideal babysitter even given the small pool of available people.

 

“I’ll take him!” A familiar voice yells in a Southern accent. On cue, equally familiar robotic Spanish grumbling is heard from a distance. “I'll raise the kid right this way round.”

 

“So he has a happy life, rather than the angst filled tragedy he's suffered the first time?” Simmons asks, pushing Sarge’s wheelchair with one hand.

 

“No, numbnuts! So he'll be a true Red soldier! I already have plans for a diesel-powered robotic anti-Blue babysitter extraordinaire-”

 

“No,” Kimball says flatly. 

 

“Babies eat, like, a banana-vodka mush, right?” Bitters asks disinterestedly.

 

“No,” Kimball says flatly. “Jesus. Look, Tucker, you've got a son, right? And you’ll be off-duty for a few days with that arm.”

 

“My son was born with a bulletproof carapace and drank nothing but blood. Also he could walk in like two hours,” Tucker protests. “I'm hardly qualified.”

 

“To be fair, this is Wash,” Simmons says. “Would it really be surprising if he was a bulletproof vampire?” The baby screams again from Matthews' arms.

 

“An excellent point, Simmons.” Sarge nods decisively. “And only strengthens my theory that Blues-”

 

“Everyone else is busy or too handicapped to watch a child 24/7, Captain Tucker,” Kimball says, sounding exhausted. “Look, Santa said a week, right? He shouldn't be a baby for long.”

 

Tucker groans, and at this moment Doctor Grey pops in. “Oh, hello, all! Sorry it took me so long, I was busy in surgery keeping someone from choking to death on their own blood.” She states the fact like she's mentioning the air is especially nice today. “Ooh, look at you both! Come on, Captain Tucker, let's get you and baby Wash in the infirmary. Volleyball filled me in, but I'd still like to run some tests.” 

 

Matthews hands Tucker an armful of smelly, soggy, crying Kevlar wrapped baby and the aqua soldier finds himself blankly following Grey.

 

“It's really fascinating, the odd customs of the Elite, I've never even heard of using de-aging as an art or even that they had the technology of de-aging at all, it would make a fascinating research paper-” Grey chatters on, Tucker aimlessly bouncing Wash in a vain attempt to get him to shut up.

 

Which is why he tenses when someone lays a hand on his uninjured shoulder, jumping into attack mode.

 

Katie Jensen backs away, hands raised, expression apologetic. “Sorry, Captain,” she says, lisp evident as ever. “I just wanted to offer some help. I can't always be here, but I practically raised my little sister.” She easily takes Wash from his arms and Tucker feels his shoulder cry in gratitude. Wash settles in her hold.

 

Tucker blinks. “I didn't know you had a little sister,” he says as they continue to walk.

 

Jensen looks down at Wash, lightly booping his nose and smiling at the confused blink of the baby’s eyes. “I don't, anymore,” she says quietly.

 

“I- oh. Oh. Jesus. Sorry,” Tucker says awkwardly. 

 

“It's okay,” she says, surprisingly evenly, as she continues to look at Wash and not Tucker. “The war was bad. Everyone's lost family. Hannah was far from the youngest to die in a bombing.”

 

Tucker can't think of anything farther from okay than that, as they enter the infirmary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shieldbank armonia geddit im clever haha pls love me


End file.
